I See You Shiver With Anticip-
by CaffieneKitty
Summary: "No," John said to the gold lamé shorts.


**Alternate Postings:** Posted on **LJ** and **AO3** on June 19 2016  
 **Rating/Content:** PG13, extensive Rocky Horror references, risqué costumes, bad crime scene protocols, silliness  
 **Warnings:** none  
 **Disclaimer:** Not my world. Rose-tinted or otherwise.  
 **Notes:** Written for **watsons_woes** ' Monthly Prompt for June. The prompt was "Anticipation" and due to my misspent early college years, that word takes me directly to only one thing... (Also where the title comes from.)

-.-  
 **I See You Shiver With Anticip...**  
-.-

"No," John said to the gold lamé shorts.

"It's for a case, John," said Sherlock, shaking the brief article of clothing at his flatmate. "You've seen what I'm wearing."

"Yes," John said, glancing at Sherlock's corset-covered torso and fishnet stocking-covered legs. "I don't think I'll ever manage to unsee it."

"You went to medical school in the '90's. Surely in some off evening there was a Rocky Horror showing."

"There was." John crossed his arms and ignored the shorts being dangled before him. "I didn't go then and I'm not going now."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "But now it's for a _case_."

"How?" John scoffed. "Do you expect someone to be murdered during the dinner party scene with a viciously sharpened piece of toast? Some exploding rice to be thrown during the wedding?"

Sherlock half-smirked. "I thought you'd said you'd never gone?"

"I've... heard things." John cleared his throat. "And you're evading the question. How is us participating in a Rocky Horror event helpful for a case?"

"I've good reason to suspect a ring of diamond smugglers are using the monthly event as a cover for their exchanges. I need to observe the event first hand to be sure."

John tapped his foot. "Fine. I'll go with you. But I am not wearing that thing. I'll go as the weedy bloke, the one with the girlfriend. I can wear my reading glasses."

"Please. You won't be _nearly_ distracting enough as Brad."

"You-!" John spluttered. "You want me there just to be a distraction!?"

"Be realistic, John." Sherlock waggled the tiny shiny garment at him. "Wearing this there will certainly be no place to carry your gun."

Snatching the briefs, John glared at his flatmate. "Fine. But if any photos are taken or anyone we know sees me in these, I _will_ end you."

Sherlock smiled serenely and adjusted his corset.

-.-

Two hours later, Lestrade locked handcuffs around the wrists of the head smuggler and handed her, her lackeys, her buyers, and the case of smuggled diamonds off to a cluster of constables to transport to headquarters. The crowd of people from the theatre were quite subdued despite their appearance, clad in various assortments of undergarments and formal wear, carrying feather boas and sacks of rice. It wasn't the most bizarre crime scene he'd been to, but the onlookers put it close to the top. Not to mention...

"Soooo..." Lestrade said, steadfastly not looking directly at Sherlock or John, more for his own dignity than theirs. It would probably not be fitting for a Detective Inspector of the Met to fall down in the street laughing. Not when there was a chance the press was around anyway.

Sherlock's appearance wasn't too befuddling now that he'd buttoned up his coat, but Lestrade was certain that glimpse of corset and fishnets would haunt him for days. It was particularly hard to dismiss the image right now, given the number of people in the crowd similarly attired. John looked even more ridiculous, having got into a fistfight with the diamond smuggler's lackeys while wearing nothing but gladiator sandals and a pair of shiny gold pants. His hair was mussed, a strap on his sandals had broken, and he'd have a few bruises and a spectacular black eye in an hour or so. Aside from that and standing around a mild, damp London street after midnight while nearly naked, the scrappy doctor was otherwise whole, chilled, and fuming silently in Sherlock's direction.

When Lestrade had arrived, the blue flashing lights of the response car had glinted off John's shiny gold briefs. The lights probably still glinted off them to be honest, even more so with the number of police vehicles that had turned up, but Lestrade was resolutely not looking. Again.

A burly constable scurried up and handed Lestrade a PC's hi-vis jacket, barely suppressing a snort.

"That will be all, Constable Hastings." Lestrade held the bright yellow jacket out in John's general direction. "Here, John. Sorry we're out of shock blankets." He wanted to add something about John fashioning a toga out of one, but it was already hard enough not to burst into laughter and the image of John in a bright orange blanket toga and sparkly underpants would do him in.

John snatched the proffered jacket from Lestrade with a half-growled, "Thanks." He pulled it on immediately, zipping it up to the neck while muttering dire imprecations about Sherlock and his bloody perpetual coat that Lestrade sympathized with. There were also mutterings that might have been regarding concealing a handgun, but Lestrade tactfully chose to not hear those.

"You know," Lestrade said, tucking his hands in his coat pockets, "diamond smugglers aren't usually in my division's purview unless they're dead."

"Had to call _you_ , he said," grumped John, shifting from sandalled foot to sandalled foot while tugging the short jacket down in attempt to cover more of his sparkly posterior. "Couldn't call 999 for some nice random PCs, oh _noooo_."

"Of course I had to call Lestrade," snapped Sherlock. "By the time a 999 operator finally understood the situation, the diamond smuggler and her lackeys would have gotten the upper hand on John-"

"Wouldn't've," muttered John.

"-and they'd have all escaped. Really, John, all one of them would have had to do is threaten to break the neck of one of the-" Sherlock waved his hand at the highly decorative crowd, "-Magentas or Columbias or Riff-Raffs and you would have backed down."

John huffed, rubbing his arms through the arms of the jacket to generate some warmth.

Lestrade crossed his arms. "How many times have I told you two; leave the arresting to us."

" _He_ said he just wanted to _observe_ the event, not get into a scrum with a pack of thugs."

Sherlock made a rude noise. "If we had waited for police response, five million pounds worth of smuggled conflict diamonds would be entering the market in the morning."

Fair-minded, Lestrade nodded. "That's as it may be, but the point stands. I'm glad you're both alright, but this could have gone far worse, especially in a crowded theatre. Plus, you've no idea the amount of paperwork I have to go do now."

John looked as apologetic as a supremely annoyed man wearing only strappy sandals, a fluorescent yellow jacket and sparkly underpants could look. Sherlock just scoffed and tapped his foot on the ground. His foot which was wearing a chunky high-heeled black pump.

 _God help me, I'd managed to forget he was wearing those shoes. So used to him looming everywhere I didn't even notice the difference in height._ Lestrade cleared his throat and forced his eyes away from Sherlock's high-heeled feet and John's bare hairy legs. "Ah. Right. Speaking of paperwork, I'll need statements. Particularly yours John, since you were technically making an affray in a public venue."

Glancing around at the crowd and tugging at the hem of the jacket again, John shivered and looked sheepish. "Can it wait until... erm."

"All right, but you both be sure to turn up first thing tomorrow so I can-" Lestrade realized what he was about to say just before he said it. " _De-brief_ you," he finished, his voice strangling with an unstoppable fit of giggles.

John glared at him. Sherlock rolled his eyes and sighed.

Lestrade masked his laughter with a very unsubtle coughing fit. "Return that jacket in the morning!" he said once he'd regained a small amount of control of his voice, waving the pair of them off home.

Sherlock harrumphed and spun on a chunky heel, coat flaring to show another glimpse of his stocking-covered legs. Nodding sourly to Lestrade, John stalked after Sherlock, snarling a string of profane threats at his flatmate, rear-end glittering in the night.

-.-.-  
(...pation. (that's it))


End file.
